


Disputed Territory

by duckbunny



Category: Do No Harm (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Drugged Sex, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, eroticised french fries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 15:39:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9663908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckbunny/pseuds/duckbunny
Summary: So far tonight Ruben Marcardo has been ambushed, threatened, coerced, flirted with, and shot at. So why not go for burgers with the man who keeps trying to kill him? What harm could it really do?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kisatsel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisatsel/gifts).



> I love this pairing. It's dumb and fucked-up and ridiculous and I had a lot of fun writing it.
> 
> Content warning: the sex in this is consensual but both parties are high, and there is dub-con drug taking.
> 
> Talk to me @duckbunny on tumblr about this absurd show.

“I don't get it,” Ruben says around a mouthful of burger. “How did Jason ever get through med school?”

“What do you mean?” Ian is picking through his fries for the crispiest ones, perched on his stool like some kind of predatory insect, too dangerous for his surroundings.

“Well, I mean, you and him... you don't exactly get along...”

Ian smiles. Or bares his teeth. “Back then we had a deal. The whole way through, med school, residency, we had an arrangement. Did he tell you I ruined his life?”

“You have been trying to do that, recently,” Ruben points out, already trying to work out how that could _not_ be true.

“Come on,” Ian says, annoyed, “come on, Rubes, that' s about revenge. He locked me up for five years. You'd know, you were my jailer! But before that, do you think I'd've done this? I got him through college!”

“How? You don't share memory, you didn't exist when he was working, how could it come down to you?”

Ian sighs and bites a fry in half. “Ruben. Think about it. He only had twelve hours to study in and he's really not that bright. I'd wake up and he wouldn't have eaten since breakfast. I fed him, I did his laundry, I made sure he slept. That was all me. I kept us going so he could follow his dream. I made sacrifices. For him. For years. And just when I thought I'd found someone who could see me, even after she'd seen him – he found you.”

“I didn't know,” Ruben says, the enormity of _five years_ hitting him all over again, “I never thought-”

“Go on. Say sorry again.”

“I am! I'm really sorry, Ian, I didn't realise what it meant, I would _never_ -”

“Yeah, and now stop apologising, before you lie to me.”

Ruben takes another  bite  of  his burger. He's not sure he can stop himself talking otherwise – when his mouth gets away from him he never can stop until someone interrupts, and the irritated edge to Ian's voice reminds him uncomfortably of being tied down to a gurney with rubber hose.  The rucksack of money is an outsize d weight on his shoulders.

Ian reaches over and snags one of his fries. Ruben's about to object – Ian hasn't even finished his own yet – but when he turns his head Ian's there, poking the fry into his open mouth. Ruben takes it automatically. It's a little cold. Greasy. It tastes wonderful. He only realises how much he's licking his lips when he sees Ian watching him.

He licks his lips again. He can't help it.

Ian rummages around in the bottom of his own bowl of fries and comes up with a fingertip coated in salt. Ruben can't look away from it, the white crystals clinging to Ian's skin, Ian's hand that looks just exactly like Jason's, held out to him as if Ian knew every thought he'd ever had in the shameful dark, and since he can't speak and can't pull back he does the only thing left. He presses the flat of his tongue against Ian's fingertip.  Salt. Skin.  H e licks again, closing his lips around it before Ian can pull away.

Ian leans in so close his breath puffs against Ruben's ear. “Take what you want, Rubes. Take me home.”

 

Ruben can't decide whether it's the engine making the car vibrate, or just himself juddering. He knows he's been fidgeting (the drugs he hastily cocktailed together act as a stimulant and a euphoric and a couple other minor effects, it's within the expected behaviours for him to get a little jumpy, bouncing his ankles against the stool in the burger place) but shivering, if he is shivering, is a new effect and he's not sure he likes it. Not sure he feels good. Ian's eyes are very dark where he's watching the road. Ruben's gaze keeps jumping between his face and his hands.

Ian reaches one-handed into the pocket of his pants and tosses a little plastic bag at him. Ruben fumbles the catch and has to  hunt for it .  The ridiculous pink rucksack squats on the floor, accusing him. Ill-gotten gains. Profiting from a crime. Ruben scrabbles at the seat between his legs and  finds two  neat capsules gleaming in the streetlights.

“Is this more of the same?”

“Yeah, that's what I kept of what you made. It's great stuff, Ruben, you've got a talent. Take it.”

“I don't know if I should. I don't feel right.”

“Take them.”

“I'm just not sure -”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.” Ian's jaw is tense, the headlights of oncoming traffic sharpening his cheekbones, shadowing his eyes. “You are boring when you're sober. You think I'm here for boring? The night's been going great so far, don't wuss out on me now. Take the pills, Ruben! Or I might get tetchy. You wouldn't want that.”

Ruben tips them out into his hand. The bright capsules look like little alien seeds in his palm, catching the shifting lights. He counts to five, like he always does when he needs painkillers, waiting to see if he's going to change his mind.

He swallows them down.

 

By the time they reach his front door, Ruben is buzzing again. He's no longer sure of what the pills are doing, how much is the adrenaline from nearly getting shot or the nerves about taking someone to bed with him or just the sleep deprivation because it's nearly five in the morning. He feels good. There's an absurd moment where he hangs back for Ian to open the door, before he remembers the key is in his own pocket. Ian looms behind him while he fumbles it into the lock. Ruben can feel the heat of Ian's body radiating through his clothes. He's about to let Ian into his apartment. Ian who who tried to kill him. Ian who he chemically jailed. He's really doing this.

Ian gives him a solid push between his shoulder blades. Ruben staggers into his darkened hallway. Okay. Yeah. This is happening.

It's Ian who kisses first. Ruben doesn't quite dare to touch him. He wants to – God, he wants to – wants to fall to his knees and ruck up Ian's shirt with his nose – curl his hands around Ian's thighs and fill his mouth until he chokes himself – merciful God, he's wanted it for years, Jason's body, Jason's voice – but this isn't Jason and Ruben can't bridge the gap. So it's Ian who touches him, cradling his head to kiss him, as confident as if he'd done it a thousand times before. He probably has, Ruben thinks dizzily, kissed and kissed until he knows exactly what to do, until the press of lips against his own can't surprise him. The wall hits his back. Maybe it's the only thing holding him up.

Ian kisses down his neck. Ruben clutches at his shoulders, whimpers at the sting of teeth in his skin, but Ian doesn't dwell on it. He keeps going, bites at Ruben's chest through his t-shirt, at the swell of his belly and Ruben's so caught up being embarrassed that he has enough there to bite that he's startled when Ian reaches his crotch.

Ian smirks up at him. His hands are busy on Ruben's jeans, tugging them insistently down to Ruben's thighs. His boxers follows. Ruben grabs for Ian's hair just to have something to hold onto, but Ian yanks his hands away and pins them to the wall.

“Not a chance, Rubes,” he growls, “you've fucked me over enough. Keep them where I can see them.”

Ruben nods shakily. “Okay. Okay. Sorry. Don't stop?”

Ian smiles, like unsheathing a knife.

He might be good at this. Ruben has no way to tell. Ian's mouth is hot and wet and Ruben is floating somewhere outside his body, every sensation stabbing white lightning along his spine. He would fall down except that Ian has his hips trapped against the wall and his hands are glued at his sides and he's moaning open-mouthed with every breath. If Ian isn't good at this then the drugs are fucking magnificent.

By the time Ian stops, Ruben is staring at the ceiling trying to remember how many limbs he has. Ian tugs his shoulder and he stumbles forward. Strong arms catch him. That's – yeah. Ruben can live with that. He follows Ian as he backs away, mumbling “That one” when Ian reaches his bedroom door.

Ian must have some kind of plan, because Ruben has stopped doing anything besides reacting. He falls onto the bed when Ian nudges him that way, lifts his hips to let Ian finish pulling his jeans down. He manages to toe off his own socks and pull his t-shirt over his head, though he stops with it still caught on his arms to stare at Ian undressing. His mouth is very dry. That's what Jason looks like naked, unselfconscious, in Ruben's bedroom, pale eagle eyes staring. Ian, what Ian looks like, and Ruben can't stop thinking about how tall he is. How his shoulder are broad enough that he can lie over Ruben with his elbows braced on the bed, caging him in. Ruben is frantic with needing to kiss him. Muscles in Ian's back shifting under his hands. Loving Christ.

Ian keeps kissing. The fearful thrill of touching him fades down into hunger and Ruben dares to stroke his arms to feel the swell of his biceps, lay his palms flat to feel his abs, his warm skin, burning hot against him, their bodies pressed together. He moans into Ian's mouth, grinding up against him. Ian bites his bottom lip.

“You ever done this before, Rubes?”

“Yeah,” Ruben says breathlessly, “I mean, not exactly, I mean I haven't done it with an actual _person_ but you know, these are modern times, there are specialist suppliers on the Internet and they make some amazing – you know you can get toys that are shaped like _tentacles_ -”

Ian is laughing on top of him. “Are you telling me you've fucked yourself with a tentacle dildo?”

He tries for dignity. “I don't have one of those, as it happens, I prefer the realistic models -”

“So you've fucked yourself with a normal dildo. So you don't need me to treat you like a blushing virgin. Even though, by the way, you are blushing. Where'd you keep the lube?”

 

By the time Ian has two fingers inside him, Ruben is arching his back and begging for more. It's not like fingering himself. It's more and it's less and by now he would already be using the toy but Ian is just rubbing and rubbing inside him and Ruben is going to scream. He's on his hands and knees, rocking back onto Ian's hand, and he's on fire with need. He can take it, he's babbling about it, begging Ian to fuck him already. He needs to be fucked, he wants it, he wants to come, and Ian laughs at him again and tells him to touch himself.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

It doesn't take him long. Later, looking back, he'll be embarrassed by that, but at the time he's just so overwhelmed by the thorns dragging through his veins he has nothing left but sensation. Ian rolls him over onto his back. There's a spreading wet patch under his hip but there's also Ian, on top of him again, kissing his neck and pushing up inside him. Ruben shudders at the pressure against his prostate. His head is swimming, He might float away from the bed if Ian weren't there to hold him down. Ian's skin is still fiery hot but Ruben is cold everywhere they don't touch. He wraps his arms around Ian's back and holds on.

Ian pulling out is enough to make him sob. He's aware of Ian wiping himself off with something – Ruben's shirt – and putting his clothes on but he can't seem to move. He's hard again but the idea of actually making himself come is agonising. The sheets are rough against his back, sweat-sticky. He's shivering.

Ian kisses his forehead. “Sorry babe, I gotta go. You've kept me up too late.”

“Stay,” Ruben says. “Please.”

“I can't. You know that. Gotta go before my asshole roommate gets back.”

Ruben manages a heroic effort and catches Ian's hand. Ian relents, comes back to kiss him properly. “You've got such a pretty mouth. Maybe next time. Get up in there and stop your babbling. You are so loud, everyone on the block must've heard you.”

“I don't,” Ruben says, “I don't feel good. I feel. Something's wrong.”

“That's the drugs wearing off. You know, you really shouldn't have taken that second dose. Ooh, you're going to _suffer_. Hangover's a bitch.”

Ruben's tongue rasps against his lips, dry and rough. “You made me. Why'd you drug me?”

“Don't think of it as drugging you. Think of it as chemical warfare.” Ian does up his belt. His gaze is distant, looking right through Ruben on the bed. Ruben feels very small under that stare.

“I'm not your enemy,” Ruben whispers.

“No,” Ian says, unblinking. “You're not.”

 

A week later, when he finally opens the ridiculous pink rucksack to count the money, he finds Ian's mobile number scrawled on top of the stack.


End file.
